


Hamish's First Case

by joinallthefandoms



Series: The Story Of How The Lonely Detective With A Skull Found Himself With A Family [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Birthday Party, Fluff, M/M, Mycroft is a good uncle, Parentlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-10
Updated: 2014-08-15
Packaged: 2018-02-12 15:47:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2115660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joinallthefandoms/pseuds/joinallthefandoms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hamish is turning six years old and what does he want more than anything? A case to solve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry I kind of skipped Hamish ages 5-6, but I really wanted to jump ahead to an age where it's at least semi-acceptable for him to be at a crime scene.

Sherlock and John laid next to each other in bed, absentmindedly playing with each other's fingers. Hamish's birthday was the day after next and the couple still hadn't decided on a present. 

"A chemistry set?" Sherlock suggested. 

"It's hard enough keeping the flat from exploding as it is, Sherlock," John chuckled. Sherlock frowned in thought. He was a world class detective that could read a person's entire life story in their left eyebrow and yet he couldn't think of a suitable present for a six year old boy. 

"A murder!" Sherlock exclaimed, suddenly sitting up from the bed. John looked at him, startled. 

"We can't give our son a murder, Sherlock," he rationed, trying to catch Sherlock by the hand and bring him back to bed. Sherlock stepped out of his husband's reach and began pacing in excitement. 

"John, he's been begging to be taken to a crime scene. He's seen pictures and read case reports; the only thing left for him is to actually see the scene!" Sherlock was practically giddy with eagerness. John sighed a most exasperated sigh before standing up and taking his husband by the hands. 

"Sherlock, he's only six, I don't want him scarred by the sight of a murder!" 

"John, listen to me for a second," Sherlock pleaded. John rolled his eyes but nevertheless sat perched on the edge of the bed as his husband made his case. 

"I'll phone Lestrade and have a fake crime scene arranged. We'll pick an out-of-the way alley and just stick up some Caution Tape." 

"And what about the victim, Sherlock?" John tried to remain reasonable. "We might be able to swing a fake crime scene, but we certainly can't get Greg or Molly to provide us with a body." Sherlock's eyes faded into that vague blankness that was an indicator for him being in deep thought. He only had to ponder for a few seconds before his face lit up with a refreshed sense of vigor and enthusiasm. 

"We'll take one of his stuffed animals and tear it open! We can set up an entire day's worth of crime solving for him!" John sighed and ran a hand down his face, weighing the effort and the craziness of the whole idea. 

"If you can set it all up by tomorrow, Sherlock, then fine," John agreed. "Hamish can have a case for a birthday present."

TWO DAYS LATER. 

"Dad! Papa! Come help!" Hamish's cries sounded in the flat at half-past seven in the morning. Already having expected the wake-up call, Sherlock and John ran out of their room fully dressed and seemingly shocked. 

"Hamish? Are you okay?" John asked with false sincerity. If he hadn't been a soldier, he totally could have been an actor. Or so he thought, anyway. 

"Look," Hamish pointed at the fluffing-strewn carpet in the living room. The dead, broken body of Sir Snuggles lay just under the couch, with a knife coated in his stuffing haphazardly hidden between the couch cushions. 

"It looks like he's been murdered, Hamish," Sherlock observed, suppressing a grin as he watched his son's face go from despaired to determined in the second it took Sherlock to say the word "murder."

"We have to solve the case, Daddy!" Hamish exclaimed, already looking around the flat for clues. 

"No, you're a big boy now, Hamish, You can solve this one all by yourself," Sherlock said. John had to fight off tears as his son beamed at them, showing his missing front teeth.  John hated to admit it, but Sherlock had been right about this; their son was already a detective himself. 

Hamish resumed his searching of the flat, bunny slippers discarded by the floor (to avoid leaving tracks and messing with the crime scene. Duh, Papa.) With a sound of exclamation, Hamish drew the butter knife from the couch cushions and observed it. Sherlock wanted so badly so speak up and tell Hamish not to touch it and contaminate it with his prints, but John's firm squeezing of his hand was warning enough. This was not Sherlock's case.

"It's the murder weapon, Papa!" Hamish said, turning to his dads. John grinned at him, kneeling down and taking it from his hand. 

"What do we do when we find the murder weapon, 'Mish?" John questioned. 

"We take it to Uncle Greg!" Hamish exclaimed. "I mean, Detective Inspector Lestrade," he corrected himself, reminding himself of his big boy detective manner. Uncle Greg was child's talk, but Detective Inspector Lestrade was Daddy's grown-up talk. 

"Well, if you get dressed and have some breakfast, we can go down to the Yard," Sherlock said, taking the knife from John and wrapping it in a napkin. Frowning, Hamish took the knife back from his Dad and placed it in his pocket. 

"There's no time to eat, Papa. Someone's been murdered!" Hamish explained, his appearance so obviously John but his you're-an-idiot-who-doesn't-understand-the-logistics-of-detective-work expression was so clearly Sherlock that John nearly laughed. Fighting to control himself. he nodded.

"Okay, 'Mish, Daddy will get you some clothes and we can eat after you solve the case, okay?" Barely needing John's look as a cue, Sherlock ran upstairs to fetch his son some fancy detective clothes. 

"Good idea, Doctor," Hamish said, refraining from calling John "Papa" when this was so clearly a formal occasion that required the very height of formality and big-boyness. 

Sherlock came bounding down the stairs with his son's outfit in hand; black trousers, a white dress shirt, and dress shoes, all courtesy of Uncle Mycroft as a sixth birthday present. When Sherlock presented the clothes to Hamish, his son's face lit up in utter joy. He and Daddy matched!

"Good work," Hamish said, taking his clothes from his Daddy's outstretched hands. Sherlock stifled a chuckle as his son took several moments trying to discern the right pant leg from the left. He might have had an IQ of 147, but he could not for the life of him figure out how trousers worked. 

"I could use a consultation, Detective," Hamish's muffled voice came through the shirt he was unable to pull off his head. Sherlock stepped forward.

"Yes, Detective?"

"Can you get me out of here?" Sherlock chuckled a bit as he set upon freeing Hamish from the confines of the shirt. Once it was pulled over his head, Sherlock pulled him into his trousers and tucked the shirt in. Hamish was determined to figure the shoes out himself. Once he had, he stood up proudly, looking like a mini John dressed in Sherlock's clothes. It was quite possibly the cutest thing in the world. 

"Off to the Yard!" Hamish exclaimed, retrieving the murder weapon from his jammy pocket. Sherlock and John nodded seriously as they followed Hamish out of the flat and watched as he tried to hail a cab. Sherlock made sure that his son could not see him as he discreetly hailed a cab behind him. When it pulled up, Hamish climbed in first. 

"Scotland Yard!" He barked. On any other day, John would have reminded him of his manners, but today was a special day, so he refrained. They rode in silence for the ten minutes it took them to get to the Yard, and when they had arrived, Hamish looked to his parents to pay the fee. Sherlock handed the cabbie 20 quid and the three embarked upon a case unlike any other they had ever solved. Hamish led the way, weaving through the people at the Yard with the confidence and ease of someone who had been going there since he was 2 years old.  Knowing exactly where Uncle Greg's office was, Hamish pushed the door open and strode in in such a Sherlock manner that Greg nearly laughed. He didn't, however, as he had received Sherlock's call two days ago and was prepared for the torrent of Detective work that was about to befall him, 

"Detective Inspector!" Hamish yelled. "There's been a murder!"

Greg did his very best to look surprised and concerned. "Where, Hamish?"

"221B Baker Street. The victim: Sir Snuggles. I have the murder weapon here and I need you to run some prints," Hamish handed the napkin-wrapped knife to Greg and placed his hands under his chin in an imitation of his father. Greg took the knife from him and nodded.

"Right away, Detective," he said. He ordered into his walkie-talkie that prints be taken and a body be collected from the scene. Hamish puffed out his chest in pride.

"It will take about an hour for the prints to come out, Hamish," Greg explained. "Why don't you go over to Molly at the morgue and see more of the body. It should arrive there before you do." Sherlock and John stood waiting just outside the door, not intruding but still being mindful.

"Can we go in the police car?" Hamish asked. Greg grinned and retrieved his car keys from his desk. He took Hamish by the hand but the boy quickly let go and reaffirmed his independence as he wove his way out of the Yard, drawing eyes and a few cheers. Best birthday ever.


	2. Chapter 2

"Molly!" Hamish exclaimed, striding through the morgue doors in an exact imitation of his father. With his dress shirt and pants, Molly actually did a double take and the sandy hair reassured her that it was indeed Sherlock's son rather than the man himself. As John, Sherlock, and Lestrade came in after the detective, each of them shot Molly a wink. 

"Yes, Hamish?" Molly, like Lestrade, had been debriefed prior to the birthday extravaganza and was aware of her duty as mortician. 

"I need to examine the body of Sir Snuggles. It should have been brought in no more than half an hour ago."

"Of course," she said, acting as though the request was nothing out of the ordinary. The six year old Hamish gave her a brisk nod and joined her as she walked toward the row of corpse slots. She drew open the one that she had labeled "Sir Snuggles" previously that morning, revealing the shredded body of the fluffed companion. John heared Hamish's audible intake of breath and began to think that the "dead body" was too much for him to handle at age six, but then Hamish spoke out with an exclamation. 

"There's something wrong," he said, pointing with a mittened hand (the mitten was quickly removed) at a particularly deep gash in Sir Snuggles' chest cavity. 

"What is it, Detective?" John stepped forward, peering curiously over Hamish's shoulder. 

"His heart is gone," Hamish declared. "Remember when we went to the store with Nanna Hudson and she made him pacifically with a purple heart?"

"Made him specifically," Sherlock corrected. John and mini- John shot him identical glares. Sherlock furrowed his brow and shut up, the immediate response he had to the look. Lestrade chuckled as John was able to do what he never could: discipline Sherlock Holmes. 

"What would the motive be for taking his heart?" Hamish wondered aloud. "Why?" He placed his hands under his chin as he had seen his father do and began pacing the room in thought. John, Sherlock, Lestrade, and Molly all shared looks of amusement. 

"Who would want to hurt Sir Snuggles, Hamish? What enemies does he have?" Sherlock provided just the teeniest bit of assistance. John pursed his lips, a classic shut-up-Sherlock face. 

"Well, he and Mrs. Snuggles have been fighting, but she has an alibi. I slept with her last night," Hamish rattled off. "But there is Teddy..." His face brightened. 

"Why would Teddy do this, 'Mish?" John asked. 

"Well, i got Sir Snuggles as a Christmas present last year from Nanna Hudson but I got Teddy as a birthday present," Hamish explained, wearing that same oh-my-god-Papa-can-you-please-try-to-keep-up face that Sherlock had mastered. Needless to say, Sherlock felt a surge of pride. 

"Can you walk us through the motive, Detective?" Lestrade asked, coming over to stand next to the couple and in front of his prodigious nephew. Well, his nephew by heart rather than blood. 

"Well," Hamish started. "My birthday is three months before Christmas, which means Teddy had three months of just me and him. We were best friends, Detective Inspector. But then i got Sir Snuggles and we started sleeping together a lot and I kind of ignored Teddy but I still told him I loved him but maybe he just didn't believe me so he killed Sir Snuggles and took his heart so I would love him just as much." Apparently, Hamish required as little breath as his father when rattling off deductions. 

"Brilliant, Hamish!" John exclaimed. Sherlock ruffled his son's hair affectionately. 

"We have the prints, Hamish," Lestrade announced. "You were right! These prints match those we have on record for one Teddy Watson-Holmes."

"Do we have to arrest him, Papa?" Hamish asked, lip quivering slightly.  _Sentiment,_ Sherlock deduced. John gathered the same. 

"No, Hamish," he said, lifting his son up into his arms. "If he says he's sorry and promises never to do it again, we can forgive him just this once. But he will have to have a one-day timeout and he loses his tea privileges." Sherlock looked at him, his face clearly conveying his message of _oh my God, John, this is not how criminology works, Hamish needs to learn that criminals are sent to prison._ John pointedly ignored him. 

"Okay. Let's go home, Papa," Hamish said, wriggling out of his dad's grip. 

"How about we get some ice cream and cake instead?" Lestrade suggested.

"Yeah!" Hamish exclaimed. He turned to Molly. "Do you want to come, Aunt Molly?" 

Molly smiled. "Of course, Hamish." She looked to Sherlock and John. "Is that okay?"

"Of course, Molly," John smiled. "This should be a family thing." Molly almost teared up but she remained her composure for Hamish's sake. A  _family_ thing. She wasn't just their surrogate, she was Hamish's mother (or his Aunt, until they were ready to tell him the truth) and she was a part of their quirky little family. 

"We are not inviting Mycroft, though," Sherlock mumbled. 

"'Cause he'll eat all the cake," Hamish concluded. Sherlock had never been more proud in his life. 


	3. Chapter 3

"Hamish, honey, can you come down here?" John called up to his son's bedroom. it was a few hours after the exciting events of the day that the happy little family had settled home, finding solace from the rapidly cooling weather in their cozy flat. Sherlock smiled warmly at his son as he bounded down the stairs wearing dinosaur pajamas and holding his copy of War & Peace (Uncle Mycroft had been teaching him to read the original Russian). 

"Yes, Papa?" Hamish asked, setting the book down on the last step. It was heavy, okay?

"You haven't asked about your birthday presents yet," John said, picking his son up and bringing him to the couch to be sandwiched between him and Sherlock. Hamish looked up at him, and then at Sherlock, with a look of slight confusion on his face. 

"i thought the case was my present," he said. 

"Why would you think that?" Sherlock asked. 

"Because you set it all up, right?" Hamish replied. John's heart broke- Hamish had known from the beginning that the case wasn't real. 

"How d'you know that, 'Mish?" John asked. Hamish giggled. 

"Duh, because Daddy kept winking at everybody," he said, poking his silly Daddy in the stomach. He ceased his laughing immediately, however, when he observed the crestfallen faces of his dads and deduced that the whole thing was meant to look really real. 

"Papa, Dada," Hamish said, Sherlock and John looked at him, looks of disappointment shared between them. "Don't worry, just because I know it was all pretend doesn't mean that it was any less fun." 

"Aww, Hamish," John pressed a kiss to his son's head. "You're just too clever for us."

"No, Papa!" Hamish exclaimed. "You and Daddy are the smartest men in the world! I love you." Hamish stood up on the couch and wrapped his arms around his Papa's neck, and then did the same to his Daddy. john teared up a little and he saw as Sherlock's mask of indifference broke away as their son's beams of light broke through the layers of ice. 

"So..." Hamish said. "There are more presents?" John and Sherlock laughed and turned behind the couch to fetch the two presents they had both bought for Hamish. 

"Which one do you want to open first?" Sherlock asked. Hamish stroked his chin in thought. 

"Dada's," he declared. He took the carefully wrapped present from John's hands and tore through it quickly. Once the paper was torn off, he was left with a Jr. Chemistry Set. He squealed in glee and practically jumped on john to smother him in kisses. 

"I love it, Papa! Now I can experiments of my own!" He excitedly announced, looking fondly at the box. Not wanting to ignore his other dad, Hamish took the package in Sherlock's hands and tore through it with as much enthusiasm as he had John's. He gasped as he held up a child-sized violin: a deep bloodred maple with perfectly ivory strings and a matching bow. He started crying.

"Hamish, what's wrong?" Sherlock worriedly inquired. He looked to his husband for help, fear welling in his heart. "John, what did I do wrong?"

"You're so silly, Dada," Hamish chuckled, tears falling from his blue eyes. "It's just, it's perfect. It's just like yours." Sherlock's heart lifted and he pulled Hamish in to a hug and pressed a rare kiss to his cheek. 

"I can start giving you lessons tomorrow, okay?" Sherlock asked, holding his baby to his chest. 

"Okay, Dada," Hamish said, pulling himself closer into his dad.

He pulled on John's shirt, indicating that he should join their snuggle, and John willingly acquiesced. The three of them stayed intertwined on the couch for quite some time, with Hamish tucked between his dads in a cocoon of warmth and security. They stayed there long enough that Hamish fell asleep, his content sighs of sleep washing over Sherlock and John like the warm wind of summer. Sherlock gingerly took the violin from Hamish's limp hand and gave it to John as he picked up his son with ease. He carried him up the stairs, careful not to bump or stir him too much, and settled him into his bed. Sherlock draped the blanket over him and pressed a warm kiss to his head, with John joining him a few seconds later. They stood, arms wrapped around one another's waists, and stared lovingly at the thing they (well, John and Molly) had created. 

"He's perfect," John whispered, leaning his head into his husband's shoulder. 

"He's ours," Sherlock replied, taking John by the hand. They tiptoed out of the room and gently closed the door behind them, making sure to turn on the night light as they left. A child as smart as Hamish and as logical as even Sherlock, and he was still convinced that there were monsters under his bed. John and Sherlock wouldn't have it any other way. 


End file.
